Good Diner: Max and Sunshine

Sunshine had shoved all her laundry into one loaded washing machine and then walked out of the building as the detergent (watered down and rinsed out from a discarded "empty" bottle in the trash) did what it could for stains that were better left unnamed. She didn't venture into town often, rarely even past the rickety metal of her trailer's door, so the clothing in the machine was the type that could be pulled off, pushed aside, reveal what was needed in order to do business. It all fit into that one load, thankfully, as she'd only brought so much money with her, and she still needed to hit the grocery store. And get something to eat right away, before the creepy grey at the edges of her vision made itself into something more.

She could've stayed in the laundromat, surrounded by the warmth and the sweet smell of detergent and fabric softener. But if she did, she knew that she'd fall asleep right there against a machine, lulled by the heat and the rhythm of the dryers, the woosh of water in the washers. It was soporific in the most seductive way, and she knew she couldn't afford to lose time to sleeping there. Laundry, food, and back to her trailer. Same as always.

It was a bit of a walk, so when she pushed through the diner's door, her face was flushed from the wind and the damp chill. Her eyes were sharp, even with the smudge of too much makeup from too many days in a row. She worked her way across the space, planting herself in a booth where she wouldn't have too many people coming up behind her, and waited, pulling her jacket off, but leaving the scarf where it was. She appreciated the cold and the way it gave her an excuse for wearing something around a neck that had gotten a little bruised in the line of duty. It made things easier when she ventured out into the world and didn't have to deal with people's stares. Especially when she was just there to grab something (cheap) to eat and get back out again.

Dec. 19th, 2015

Good diner: Max and Gwen

The thing about the diner off Main was, people were gradually getting to know that the man now running it was no longer the man who had been running the diner off Main for thirty years. The food then had been consistent; it had not been good, exactly, but it had been convenient. The menu hadn't changed in at least fifteen years and the short-order cook had been short-tempered, which meant if the waitstaff got the order wrong, you ate whatever it was the short-order cook had made, because otherwise, you didn't eat at all. Now the diner (known only as 'the diner', partly because Max didn't think to give it a name, and partly because the locals couldn't remember the name it had had before, given it had always been called 'the diner') was renowned for being convenient, and not very good, but at least cheerful. This was due to the obliviousness of Max setting wages (a good two dollars an hour more than they had been previously) and to Max's own inability to lose his temper, as well as the sense that a diner meal was no longer quick and easy, but required of you enough time that you unwound by sheer necessity, rather than by choice.

Max had given in and hired a short-order cook out of sheer necessity. Not because he was so very bad at cooking - which he was, and while he enjoyed it immensely and was happily oblivious to his own ineptitude - but because the volume of custom had ticked up as it had gotten colder and colder and Christmas shopping had drawn people out and left them hungry and without the desire to go home and make food for themselves.

The short-order cook was finishing up now, and all the wait-staff were gone, save Max. He was sat behind the counter, with a folded newspaper and a pencil, and a cup of the ever-present black coffee, a pot simmering on the burner behind him. The air smelled like cheese and eggs, and beneath that coffee and apple pie: there was a great slab of it behind Max, under a plastic cover. The pie was made by someone enterprising in the neighborhood, rather than Max, so it sold very quickly.

The radio was crackling and static, but beneath the static, there were carols: the old and extremely traditional kind rather than the sort that would come on a pop station in between hit numbers. Max was tapping and humming, and when the bell over the door jangled, he looked up startled, and the glasses slid from being propped on his forehead to onto his nose.

Nov. 20th, 2015

news

[Friday afternoon, computers with webcams start to come on of their own accord. It's not all of them, of course, because that would be suspicious. But they're on, but whomever's watching through those cameras remains an untraceable mystery. Any efforts to turn the cameras off, if they're noticed, succeed, and the camera does not turn back on again.]

Nov. 18th, 2015

Max and Matt

The diner on Main was easily recognizable. It had a logo out front that had been there as long as the town could remember, which was practically the years immediately following Pearl Harbor. It was painted blue and red, and had a yellow sign and while the paintwork had faded considerably over the years, the windows were significantly cleaner than they had been the previous week. The owner had sold up, gone somewhere, possibly even fishing. He had left behind a staff who had, to some degree, scattered and now the place was Max's.

It was well-known only in as much as it was convenient. The hours (six, to eight) were part of the much faded, laminated menu in a sign out front which was presumably where the new owner had got his antiquated notions of how long diners were meant to stay open and when they were supposed to close. In practice - historically - the place had been left open as long as those behind the counter wished it to be, and for as long as the chef could be kept in whiskey and cokes.

The door was open now, at twenty of the hour. Inside it was brighter and cleaner, although the booths were still faded blue leather and the interior was washed-yellow walls and booth tops and a row of seats along a bar, immediately opposite a partial wall beyond which lay the stove and what consisted of the kitchen. This was noticeably empty.

Max himself was leaning against the bar-top, with a newspaper rolled up in a half, in his fist. A pencil was shoved behind his ear, and he was absently groping around for it with fingertips on the bar without actually raising his eyes from the page. He wore glasses, sliding down his nose, and a cup of coffee (untouched: cup on a saucer, rather than a mug) sat to one side, in precarious danger of being lost in the search for the missing pencil. He wore a shirt, a little too good-quality, but rolled up at the sleeves and loose at the neck -- and a dishtowel, draped over one shoulder.

Nov. 17th, 2015

Denial: Usually sets in the morning of parent/teacher conference night. When you wake up and think, no, it won't be like it was last year.

Anger: When you arrive at school and see the children you gave low marks to hand their signed report cards back to you with a smirk.

Bargaining: You ask your student teacher to take the lead, you tell him that you've got so much confidence in his skills and he's been such a huge help thus far, and you feel he's really ready to take this next step. If by some chance he agrees, your administrator will never sign off. Ever.

Depression: 2:45 PM. Final bell rings. You look at the schedule for the hundredth time. You have no idea how you're going to handle it all. You play every scenario out in your head. You begin cleaning you classroom from top to bottom, you wonder if the rabbit looks sick. You wonder if you really were too hard on your grade marks. You start to question every choice you've made.

Acceptance: 5:30 PM, the classroom begins to fill up with parents, there is nowhere to run, and nowhere to hide. This is your fate, if you can make it through - there are donuts in the teachers lounge that will be like a sooting balm to your crushed soul once its all over.